


Apples and Oranges

by ibgarry



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Casual Sex, F/M, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Post-Memory's Crannies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibgarry/pseuds/ibgarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ib is already reluctant to seek help from a counselor and confide in strangers. When she makes a friend after years of voluntary animosity and distance, her life changes in a matter of days.</p><p>What Ib hopes her new friends can help her figure out is: What happened eight years ago that sent her life and mental state into a downward spiral?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> WHEN WILL I STOP WRITING IB FICS? im sure some people were just waiting for me to crawl on back.
> 
> and no, no underage smut. you're welcome

Beyond the stretch of window panes and steel beams, rain thundered against the exterior of an otherwise-silent, darkened high school, vacant despite its lonely skeletons on their own evening missions. It was a droning noise that, despite its magnitude, became nothing but silence after a short time, yet still managed to drown out the gentle echoes of distant footsteps on linoleum and insignificant murmurs of the more unfortunate students the day had left in its wake.

It was supposed to be fall, with cold sunny days dissolving into snowy, dark days, but something had decided that this day would be different.

Ib didn’t mind the disturbance of unusual weather, nor did she mind staying in her school after hours, especially if it helped her mental health. Her mother had begged her after so long to give a support group the slightest of chances, even if it failed her. It had been months since this relentless pushing had begun, but something drew her further from home and closer to the further recesses of the school’s math classrooms that evening, overflowing with plastic chairs and the never-failing smell of mold, left from a summer’s worth of flooding.

Over all else was the sound of her mary janes against faux marble, dragging with them rainwater brought in by those returning from the rain late in the afternoon, before the lights had begun to go out for the evening. The smells so familiar to her, reminiscent of the freshman Algebra classes she’d nearly flunked and failed sophomore relationships returned to her again. With memories already poor enough in their recognition, the faintest light glowed from the end of the now-carpeted hall. She moved toward it with a nervous haste, awaiting a safe haven yet fearing the concept of confiding in strangers.

She could feel anxiety, bubbling up into her throat and consuming her whole as the entrance of the lit doorway grew closer. It occupied her every thought, a blanket of fear from God-knows-what, pushing her further away but begging her to move forward. She dug her fingernails into the back of each of her hands, wringing her digits in mental strain. She walked brisk, normally, as best as she could, as fluid as it felt, but the wrongness of it all made her sick to her stomach.

She knew it was too late to turn back when she peered into the room, decorated with a circle of plastic chairs and encouraging academic posters. Inside, a well-kept, vaguely-familiar man sat before the circle he’d made, a congregation of emotionally toiled and damaged minds, seeking comfort that Ib would have been happy not to join. A girl she recognized looked up at her with her narrow eyes, clutching the hem of her dress. Her eyes darted to the floor again, evenly cut black bangs falling over her eyes.

“Ib, is it?” The group leader asked, standing up and brushing off dust. Just the sound of her name made her jump.

The counselor removed himself from the circle of chairs, stretching out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m glad you’re here.”

He was a man of average height, gray hair swept back and black tie nearly choking him. He was an aged man, his face showing all the signs of distress. His eyes were round, deeply set in his skull.

Ib met him with her own hand, shaking it with the slightest hesitation and blatant weakness that she knew he noticed. He didn’t seem to acknowledge it, returning to his seat carefully. “Sit where you’d like,” he offered, gesturing to his own setup.

Facing the door was her classmate, an older man (who probably attended college), and a woman Ib assumed was old enough to be her mother. She took a seat with her back to the door, self-groomed bangs brushing against her lashes.

Her stomach dropped, and remained there. Something gave her an uneasiness, and above her view she could feel eyes, unsure yet burning through her. She couldn’t bring herself to meet them, begging for mercy or release from the moment. She wrung her fingers, picking at the callouses on her palm until they released from the undead skin, nearly bleeding.

“Young lady,” she heard to her right, voice smacking her in the face. Her head darted up, locking eyes with the teacher. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

That was right, he had asked for introductions. She rose, still holding her hands in fear.

“I’m Ib. I’m seventeen. I have anxiety and PTSD.” She sat down.

She heard the beginning of her classmate’s introduction, the name of Emma, sixteen, before it left her mind. At least she was able to ignore the presence of her unfriendly, adjacent male neighbor.

“Now that we know each other’s names, I thought we might start by discussing what's on our mind."

Ib hated two things about counseling: talking about how she felt and recalling the things that hurt her. Not because they hurt to remember, but because her lies were always different. She couldn’t remember what happened. Her doctor told her she had PTSD, but she had never been to war or experienced anything traumatic. She didn’t argue since all the symptoms were there, but the abrupt discovery of the illness tore her apart.

“I was diagnosed with both anxiety and PTSD three years ago. I was in a house fire.” She sat down.

She looked up now at the people watching her, sure that they would assume her to be a liar. They seemed to understand. Emma continued. She had been depressed and struggling with anxiety for a shorter amount of time, and Ib felt she had been aware of that fact one way or another, though she didn't know her well, just shared a class with her the year before.

The younger man stood, tucking his hair back behind his ear. It was fried, chopped at ear-length. His voice was rusted, sad, tired. “I have PTSD, anxiety, and depression. I was diagnosed with anxiety eight years ago and with the other two seven years ago.” This was the person that had been staring at her, she was sure of it. A man, maybe in his early 30's or late 20's. His bleach-damaged hair was dyed a dark green. His brown roots had grown in somewhat, but it wasn’t too bad of a dye job. His grey eyes were void, cheeks hollow, but he wasn't hard on the eyes, at least to Ib.

“It’s good to see you again, young man,” the leader nodded solemnly, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind me mentioning,” the leader continued, “but you were also addicted to a few things a while ago. Would you mind sharing?”

Ib looked away, listening but too consumed with her mental health to focus on visuals.

“I smoked a lot. I was into a lot of things. I don’t want to list them all, so...”

 

Ib looked up to inspect him again, but his eyes were down. His complexion was light, but still tanner than her. There were callouses on his knuckles. His nails were bitten down to the bed. He was wearing slacks, and considering his state of being, they were in pretty good condition.

Ib felt the presence of his focus as his eyes flashed up to watch her face, and she turned away, feeling painfully awkward for staring.

It wasn’t a new feeling. She had acted this way before in countless other situations. What scared her was his height and his eyes, irritated from days of neglect and addiction and no sleep. What scared her was... frankly, anyone at all, but him especially so.

So she sat, a passive observer to the lives of the four people around her.

* * *

She found, in the end, that she couldn’t find any room to speak unless spoken to. A shadow of a person to the rest of them, she watched the people around her, hardly able to pay attention when she was more focused on not looking imperfect at any given second.

A ride home wouldn’t be meeting her outside in the cold, so Ib braced herself, wrapping a wool scarf around her thin neck. In her mary-janes and stockings and knee-length skirt, she started her walk home.

Ice layered the ground now, and every so often she found herself losing her footing. Unconsciously, she’d begun dodging the frozen patches in her path. Her phone hung heavy in her coat pocket, but she would have to take her gloves off to access anything. It remained there despite the urge to grab it. The earlier rain had turned into sleet and now snow, and it caught on her brunette hair.

Someone’s presence lingered.

Someone was following her. She didn’t want to turn, hoping to doubt her senses, but _God,_ he was breathing so hard! His footsteps were getting closer…

Calmly, Ib slid the bag off of her shoulder, sifting slowly through the clutter of her backpack. With her strap around the nook of her elbow, she spun, triggering her bottle of mace.

It missed completely; she aimed too far down, coating the front of the man's clothes.

“Oh, Jesus!” A familiar head of green hair recoiled backwards, and the older guy from the support group hit the ground hard. Ib’s lanyard flew out of his hand onto the icy concrete, house-keys jingling. At the sight of him, Ib herself jumped away, adrenaline still pumping as she concealed the canister.

The stranger panted out of fear, scrambling for the lanyard to help somehow. His rugged fingers fumbled against the ice. “God, I’m _really_ sorry, I just…”

“That was... excessive,” Ib admitted, at a loss for words as she retrieved the keys he offered her. “You probably shouldn’t… chase after people like that.”

“Yeah, I see that now,” he scoffed, pushing himself up while Ib’s stunned visage went beet-red. As he brushed himself off, Ib’s flustered face had him smiling like an idiot, despite his initial fright, and Ib couldn't understand what he was laughing at. “Ib, right?”

She replied through clenched teeth, “Yes.”

Much to Ib’s dismay, the older man held out an ungloved hand. 

She wasn’t too sure of herself as she accepted his handshake, having forgotten whatever lie she’d given to the others. Nonetheless, she was calming down.

He pulled his hand away, sliding it into his pant pocket. “My name’s Garry. Don’t know if you caught it back there.”

In retrospect, he must’ve been cold as all hell, wearing only a scarf and crewneck sweater. Ib felt bad for him. She turned and kept walking, looking over her shoulder. “Are you heading home?” Ib asked him out of sheer curiosity.

“Yep,” he replied, nodding as a plume of steam escaped his lips. He quickly bounded forward, catching up to walk at her side. “There’s a bus stop five blocks down this road that I wait at."

“And you’re… walking there…?” She asked in a state of disbelief. She wasn’t even sure _she_ could handle the walk home without losing her mind, and her house was just a short walk away...

“Well, yeah…” he shrugged, watching cars pass through the slushy roads beside them. “I do it every other day, usually.”

Ib remained silent for a while, hands heavy in her coat pockets as they walked at each other’s sides. “I can’t even imagine that, in this cold...”

Garry sighed into his scarf. “I’m used to it.”

“Even so, that’s--” Distracted by the conversation, Ib skidded on the ice, losing her balance. The ground fell out from under her, and then--

Her ass collided with the iced pavement. Not before Garry tried to grab her by the arm to hold her up, to no avail.

Garry's eyes were wide with panic. “Are you okay?!”

Still recovering from the rush of adrenaline, blood ran to Ib’s head. The ruby red of her eyes pierced through him. “I’m fine.” Wanting to crawl into a hole and die could be defined as "fine", right?

Hoping not to knock her over again, Garry hoisted her up while Ib pushed herself up from the ground. Slowly, the panic was alleviated, but Ib couldn’t help but choke on her words.

The tension between the two seemed to fade after Ib regained her balance, but remained despite Ib’s internal plea for instantaneous death.

Ib met the corner of her street, and stopped at the crosswalk. It took a moment for Garry to notice that she had halted a few steps back, stopping before he could step out onto the suburban street to cross. He turned to Ib, wind blowing his green bangs into his face.

“Is this your street?” He asked, pointing down the road. Behind him, the sun was setting, and his shadow was cast onto her, blocking the light out of her eyes.

Ib nodded. “Yeah, but…” Her face was numb. “I wanted to walk you to your stop.” The wind was deafening. As Garry’s eyes grew wide, Ib stammered to explain herself. “I figured it was really cold, and you don’t have a coat, so I was worried that--”

“I’m not old enough to need a kid to walk me home, am I?”

It was more of a concern than sarcasm, but the remark felt like a stab through her chest. Garry seemed to chuckle, and Ib noticed his smile to be strikingly lovely despite his claims of previous smoking habits. His grey eyes glinted in the light of the streetlamps.

“I suppose not,” she admitted, looking down to watch the hem of her chiffon skirt sway in the winter wind.

“At this age, it should probably be _me_ walking you home, if anything.” The words reached Ib somehow, though she couldn’t process the mere thought fully until she noticed Garry had stepped closer. She went to look up at him, and he stood tall in front of her. In fact, as he held his arm out for her to take it, the cocky grin of his was shadowed by his height.

Ib took his arm in hers, floored by his unblinking courage. The wind seemed to sweep them down the road, and Ib’s tiny “thanks” was nearly blown away with it. 

“How old are you?” Ib asked him in a more confident tone, looking up to see him react. She hoped he wouldn’t react badly, but he didn’t really seem like the type to snap at genuine curiosity. He'd probably said it at the meeting, but Ib hadn't paid any attention, as she was sure he knew.

His brows rose, but he didn’t meet her gaze. He acknowledged her with a faint smirk. “I turned twenty-eight last week, actually.”

“Oh, really?” She breathed, pearly whites peeking out from cold-stained, pink lips. “Happy birthday."

“You don’t have to say that,” he assured her, and he dropped his arm, letting Ib relax hers. Ib’s red-brick house peeked out from around the corner. “I still feel like a kid, even now.”

“I’m seventeen,” she informed him without his asking. Garry turned promptly to her.

“Do people tell you you look younger?” He asked.

Ib quipped, “Almost all the time.”

Garry laughed into the breeze, and the cold became harsher as his laughter died. It was starting to get dark now. Ib smiled inwardly.

Garry dwelled on the thought for a while, preceding his words with a sigh. “Being seventeen was fun.”

“Maybe for you,” Ib added, burying her face in her own scarf as they reached her gate. She undid the latch on her front gate. Garry stood a few feet away, unable to muster a response.

“Is this your house?” Garry asked as the cast-iron gate slammed shut. Before Ib could respond to reassure him in any way, he continued. “It’s nice.”

The fence separated the two. Garry leaned against it, watching Ib from a few feet away. “My room’s up there,” she remarked, directing him to a room on the second floor. The interior had been concealed by lace curtains. Inside, a warm light glowed faintly. It was one of a few things she could say she was proud of.

Ib turned away, taking a step up the concrete path to the front door before she stopped abruptly, turning back to Garry. She retrieved her phone from her coat pocket, unlocking it from its frozen state. Mustering unwarranted confidence, she turned to him. “What’s your phone number?” She called out to the man across from her, who hadn’t moved an inch.

He read it off to her as she typed it in, and as she finished putting in his contact information, he concluded, “My name has two r’s,” prompting Ib to stay standing in the path for a moment longer to make the change.

Returning the phone to her pocket, she waved goodbye. “Stay warm,” Garry offered with a parting wave.


	2. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib is ready for the time between her and support group to come and go, but a stranger intercepts her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im trying to build up very slowly and keep it interesting and so far its ok. everything's alright.
> 
> its going well. can you tell i haven't planned this fic out yet. im dying inside

Ib shot up in bed.

From above the sheets, she could see her duvet bunched up on the ground. She bent over the edge of the queen, scooping up the fluffy blanket into her clammy hands. Her lungs burned from the strain of hyperventilation. Her eyes stung. Whether or not she was crying didn’t matter much to her.

She was alive and fine and absolutely panicking. The digital clock on her nightstand read _3:01AM,_ and she sighed her fright away. Everything was normal. Even the creases on her rug were the same as ever.

That only meant that she hadn’t been screaming.

She got night terrors all the time, for as long as she could remember. If the creases on the rug were the same as she’d left them when she fell asleep and not pressed and bent by the footsteps of her parents, they either hadn’t heard her cries or the cries had never happened. She’d checked the creases every night before she fell asleep for years now, memorizing the folds and creases before she succumbed to her dreams.

The familiar clawing at her throat that followed a minute of strained, involuntary screaming didn’t afflict her despite her panic.

Relaxing against her lace-trimmed pillows, she reached for the phone that rested at her side, still plugged into its charger. The screen nearly blinded her as it lit up, but she managed to decipher the message on her lock screen she’d received shortly after falling asleep hours before.

_To be honest, I’m not sure._

When Ib had fallen asleep hours ago, all context and memory of the evening’s conversation had disappeared with her consciousness. She fumbled her way into the conversation window.

Garry: _It’s pretty rare for kids to get PTSD, especially from something like a fire_

Ib: _what was your trauma?_

Garry: _To be honest, I’m not sure._

Part of Ib wanted to reach out to him and assure him that he wasn’t alone in his confusion, that she, too, had no idea what trauma she’d gone through, but she had fallen too deep into her lie. This was one of the first friends she’d had in _years,_ and she was lying to him from the get-go.

She was lying to herself, truthfully. She could have made friends as a compulsive liar (not that she really was one) or something of that severity. What kept her from long-term friendships was her constant, near-violent reactions to the smallest stimuli and her overall reclusiveness. Lying was hardly a fraction of it.

What hurt more than the illness was the thought that she only had herself to blame for it. No one had _really_ hurt her. Her parents were wonderful people, always concerned for her safety. She’d never been in a natural disaster or a car wreck. In the darkest times, she wondered if she had fabricated the illness herself.

Once the frustration and panic passed like a wave over Ib, she was left only with the comfort of her spacious, silent bedroom and her phone.

Her eyes struggled to adjust as she clicked on her bedside lamp. No matter how soft the light was, it still blinded her, if only for a few seconds. She blinked away the spots in her vision, letting herself return to her conversation that she’d left behind hours before.

She tapped out a response to Garry’s message from hours before, expecting his reaction in the morning.

_no kidding_

She sunk into her feather pillows. Her only companions were the stuffed animals she’d been given as a child, scattered around the room and the (now-absent) man on the receiving end of Ib’s texts.

Ib’s phone chimed. Expecting Garry to be asleep, she was floored at the sight of his name across the screen.

 _Jesus. Why are you awake right now?_ _  
_ Ib snorted. _why are you?_

For a moment, the midnight silence was almost overbearing. She was thankful when her text tone brought her back down to earth.

_I’m an adult, damn you._

Ib giggled loudly before biting her tongue, aware of the consequences of being caught up so late. _right, sorry._

Her phone went quiet after a while, allowing her to succumb further into her fatigue. The heater buzzed from beyond the house’s walls, a strange urban lullaby. Surely Garry had fallen asleep by now.

Didn’t her mom say that the support group met up every Monday and Friday? It almost felt like it was too long of a wait, and she surprised herself with the thought that she wanted to return. Whether it was for her own well-being or for seeing Garry again, she didn’t care. Being around all those people didn’t seem _that_ bad… but she’d told herself that same thing in regards to other situations a thousand times before.

Oddly enough, though… it felt a little more true this time around. She would just have to waste away her weekend.

She hadn’t really given it much thought, but why did she like Garry so much? Other strangers had shown her that same kindness. Was it that his stony facade concealed the gentleman that he was? God, did they even have anything in common?

Ib reached for her phone, considering spilling these thoughts to him, but it felt odd to spring it on him like that. Her phone rested in its own place in the sheets, Ib’s hand hovering above it.

She pulled away.

* * *

The weekend had passed quickly by for Ib, the clockwork of her own hobbies pulling her through each day. More often than not, she would look up from her book or wipe her hands on her skirt after binging on small snacks to reply to Garry’s periodical texts. Their frequencies varied, as he was busy, so the peaceful, uneventful moments of her day hung on the thread of Garry’s attention.

In those quieter moments, her self-doubt would sprout in her tumbling mind, reminding her that this stranger was someone she was the closest to. Some guy who she’d spoken to only once in person was now her best friend. She felt more and more pathetic as each minute passed with no response.

Then Garry would return with an insignificant anecdote, and Ib’s entire day would turn around, if only for a few minutes.

So, when Monday morning came around, Ib’s own excitement woke her up hours before her alarm. A text she received from her friend around four in the morning read: _Are you going to support group today?_

Ib’s heart flipped at the idea of talking to Garry, someone whom she thought actually _liked_ her, which was almost completely unheard of in the first place. She rested her head on her pillows, sinking into the mattress in a trance.

She tried for an hour or so to fall back asleep. Ib recognized her failure when her mother entered the room, the first alarm she faced every morning.

Ib rolled over in bed, brunette hair tossed into tangles across her face at the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, sweetie,” her mother piped in, peeking in from around the bedroom door. Gently, she stepped in, already dressed and ready for daily office work in her staple pencil skirt and blouse. She smiled at her groggy Ib knowingly, but the silly grin on Ib’s face was definitely conspicuous. “Why are you smiling like that, silly?”

Ib’s small laugh hinted at her exhaustion. “I made a friend at support group on Friday,” she mumbled from beyond the sheets, a glint in her eyes while she waited for her mother’s predictable, visceral reaction.

Her eyes sparkled at the news, and the door squeaked open further as Ib’s mom stepped further inside, rushing towards her daughter with open arms. “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!” She cooed, scooping up the small figure of her daughter. Somewhat proud, Ib returned the gesture, smiling into the crook of her mother’s neck. “I’m so happy for you! What’s their name?”

Ib wasn’t really sure what her mother would make of a _male_ friend, let alone an adult one, but she pressed on. “His name’s Garry,” she mumbled, sleep still weighing on her chest.

Her mother didn’t seem too disappointed; hearing that her daughter had broken through her social shell was news enough, and she was overcome with a bizarre sense of pride. She gave Ib’s shoulder a little reassuring squeeze, cheering her on. “You should bring him home soon so we can meet him!” She enthused, and Ib finally noticed the layer of foundation on her mother’s face where the corners of her mouth crinkled. The subtle morning light wasn’t kind on her face.

She brushed aside Ib’s bangs, giving her forehead a loving smooch. “I’ve got to get going, okay, sweetheart?” She mentioned, and Ib could smell the mouthwash on her breath even as her mother backed away. Ib nodded, lids drooping. At the sight of her daughter succumbing to sleep, she tutted, “Don’t fall back asleep now, Ib.” She wagged her finger with a learned grin. “I don’t need you being late again.”

Ib wasn’t sure how her mother knew she’d been tardy last week. The school probably called home, but snooping on her part was more than possible. Before she could pry into her mom about the fact, though, she was out the door, ready to make her commute.

A typical morning.

Ib blocked the morning light out of her eyes with her arm, groaning against her lethargy. It would take a while to garner the willpower to crawl out of bed and get going for the school day.

Even if she was excited for the evening’s meetup, school was still a huge pain. She would have done anything just to skip the day and see Garry for a moment.

Something about this felt strange. Why was she so interested in him? Surely the constant texts from a girl eleven years younger than you would be nuisance enough, and he really didn’t _have_ to cater to her. There was something that drew her in, wanted to be closer to him, but she didn’t have a clue what.

She sighed into the mattress, sliding lazily away from the warmth and comfort of her now-messy bed. He was attractive, charming, personable… what was there not to like? She hoisted herself up to get ready, trying to clear her mind.

Ib sifted through her closet full of clothes, trying her best to ignore the fact that she wanted to dress up especially nice for something so silly. People don’t dress up for friends, do they? What do they wear if they want to impress them? The thought that Ib hadn’t had friends in so long that she had to _really_ think about these things was a heavier weight than anything else. Maybe just a dress, boots, and knee socks would do, as long as she had a coat for the winter freeze. No one would really pay attention.

The air stung her bare cheeks as she stepped out onto the slushy pavement for her morning hike to school. Someone had salted the front steps of the house. With her hands stuffed heavily in her coat pockets and her backpack tugging on her shoulders, she trudged on.

For a moment, the world seemed to be holding its breath. Ib expected divine intervention to bring Garry to her, to see him down the road, pulling himself through the cloudy morning frost against fatigue and deafening wind. She convinced herself that he was there without even looking up to check. Even if he said he would be working all morning, surely some force would bring them together. Ib was desperate.

Of course, as she stood in her sleet-stained boots on the corner of the road, he was nowhere to be found. Ib didn’t bother to feel sorry for herself as she moved on.

Walking against the wind towards her school was torture enough; she couldn’t imagine being in it for ten minutes, let alone an hour. Her mind felt as numb as her face. All she could think about was the snow on her lashes and the cold that pinched her cheeks. Cars sped by, nearly gliding down the snow-plowed roads beside her. The peeling layers of ice on the road had seen dramatic adversity in the last few hours, but here and there Ib would notice the way the ice bent into the curb, untouched.

Kids marched on against nature to get their educations that they wished they could live without. Pushing against the force of a near-blizzard was no simple task. Ib struggled on her own, coat like a sail pulling her away from a place that she, truthfully, would rather not have been heading towards. The only thing getting her through the day now was the thought that she would be seeing her friend eventually if she stayed. Living just to see him would turn out to be worth it… or, at least, she hoped.

Across the road, something caught her eye. A girl about Ib’s height struggled with her towards the expansive high school building, rivulets catching the wind. She, too, was alone. Her legs were covered well, boots and stockings pulling her outfit together. Her light dress and heavy coat fit her form perfectly, despite the layering. Above all, though, she was _completely_ covered in bows: one on her head, another set of four on her coat, two on each boot. It was cute, sure, but to Ib, a little excessive. Still, who was she to judge?

Ib’s hair whipped at her cheeks. The wind had shifted downstream for the morning traffic. Now, the parking lots towards the back of the building were in perfect view from the street. Cars were pouring in.

A flag hung from the back of a truck streaked by. A few girls flicked cigarettes into the road, forming pockets in the ice. Ib could feel a salty grit beneath her shoes, numb feet sliding along the pavement.

She noticed now that she was moving much slower than the rest of the crowd. Shivering, she approached a crosswalk that connected the opposite sides of the street for the students who lived north of her. The bouncy, dress-clad visage of the girl from before came bounding down the crosswalk, traffic stopping just for her. For the most part, Ib ignored her.

Relief washed over her when she swung open the cafeteria doors, her typical entrance to school. Inside, the air was heavy and warm; she shed her coat and scarf quickly, slinging them over her arm. The sight of so many people stung her with a special anxiety that she always felt on these mornings. Her posture began to break. It didn’t help that her bag nearly pulled her to the floor. She made herself smaller, crossing her arms over her chest.

The Monday stupor of varied hangovers and all-nighters hit her in the form of coffee, coating her in the smell and flooding her senses. She liked the smell, sure, but only if she could escape it. Her eyes burned, unwillingly taking in the perfume of espresso.

The modern sarcophagus of the school cafeteria, polished neatly over the weekend, echoed the voices of tired and overzealous students alike, and its massive windowed exterior brought in all the natural light it could.

Ib had sat alone hundreds of times since she started school, paranoid of curious eyes watching her. This time was no different as she pulled a black, plastic chair away from a laminated, circular table. Without wasting any time, she reached for her phone again. No news.

Usually, other students would come and take over her table for the most part, but Ib had woken up with the sun, all too excited for the evening’s events. The murmur of the cafeteria was gentler on her ears than usual, which relaxed Ib to an extent. The unwelcome guest across from her this time around wasn’t as kind, eyes digging into the top of her head.

Taking a chance, Ib looked up at her new neighbor, the same girl she’d seen before. She wasn’t even sure she had heard her come over.

When Ib had spotted her, this girl had looked ready to conquer anything, eager as the day was young. But here, sitting across from her, she had a look of mischievous curiosity that chilled Ib to her core. Which was a shame, because she’d just made it inside. So much for keeping to herself.

Ib wasn’t even sure she had seen her before this morning.

This girl, bleached rivulets and eyes like glass, analyzed Ib with a scrutiny that gave her chills in the worst way possible. Hands tucked under her chin, her bright blues looked her over for a moment before she jumped in some sort of glee, rounding out her rosy cheeks.

“What’s your name?” She questioned Ib with a nauseating enthusiasm.

Ib wasn’t sure how to react. Lamely, she kept it simple for her: “Ib.”

The other girl didn’t waste a breath before interrogating her, and Ib wanted to punch the smile off her face right then and there as she murmured, “Are you waiting on friends?”, keeping it hushed and cupping her hands around her mouth as if the whole world didn’t know she didn’t had friends.

Ib sank into herself, feeling a mess of anger, sadness, and confusion all at once. Her face burned in the most uncomfortable way possible. Surely the red of her outfit brought it out well, much to her embarrassment. Nearly seething, she muttered, “No.”

The girl rested her hands down on the table, curls rolling along her shoulders with every small movement she made. She was infuriating to watch, and Ib just _couldn’t read her._ Ib’s original perception of her wasn’t far off, but the idea of how awful she really was (or was capable of being) was far from what she had expected.

“I’ll be your friend, then!”

Ib scowled inwardly, feeling herself sink back into her seat. The idea of being friends with this girl made her cringe, but the fact that she had _declared_ it was certainly not helping her case. “I don’t think that’s how that works,” Ib informed her, much to the blond girl’s sudden display of anguish.

Wait… was this girl being _genuine_ ? She didn’t _actually_ want to be friends, did she? She had expected this entire scene to be a joke, a cheap laugh for her other friends (who had been watching for _quite_ a while, giggling to themselves), but _God_ if her face didn’t read off as sincere.

Ib pulled back, nearly stuttering. “I mean, usually people don’t ask to be friends,” she stumbled, smiling weakly to reassure her. It was as if this girl had never spoken to another human being, despite the many people she’d greeted on the way in. She didn’t seem to mind the social lesson, though, because she smiled at the advice after a moment of contemplation, perking up.

If this girl was screwing with her, Ib would be feeling torment for hours after, she was sure of that.

The silence must have only been felt by Ib; as every second passed, she itched for more conversation or some sort of peace from her social anxiety. Not wanting to be the first to speak, she hesitated, asking the girl opposite of her, “What’s your name?”

She recoiled, but her grin seemed to indicate that Ib’s response had pleased her. With a smirk, she outstretched her hand. “The name’s Mary.”


	3. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib tolerates Mary, but her perceptions go soft.
> 
> Friendships become stronger if only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY IHAVEN T UPDATED IN FOREVER AAAAAAAA
> 
> thanks for cheering me on, even though i haven't gotten far. i plan on making this a really long fic, so bear with me. summer's on its way, so i'll make a lot of stuff happen.
> 
> thanks again <3

Mary was quick to return to her friends at their table after her introductory confrontation with Ib. Mary’s interaction with the group after the excitement seemed to bring her implied friends some amusement, because they seemed to giggle for what felt like half an hour before the people who had entered the commons began to disperse again. All of them, including Ib, seemed to move with the current towards the first classes of the day.

The only reason Ib considered Mary’s friends “implied” was due to the almost instantaneous realization that it was Mary’s first day at the school.

Upon entering her first class of the day, Ib’s sculpture teacher introduced Mary as the newest addition to the class. Her instructor’s nasally tone grated against Ib’s ears as it usually did whenever she spoke. Ib’s classmates applauded Mary as she took her seat, conveniently located directly to Ib’s left.

Ib could only think that she must have known most of the girls before she’d enrolled. Maybe she’d met them during a school tour. She wasn’t the type to pry, so she didn’t ask. It was certainly a coincidence to have her in her first class. 

As her elderly female teacher helped Mary dive into the ongoing class projects, Ib kept her focus. At least the new girl was making friends.

She was in Ib’s second class period, as well: pre-calculus. Sharing the same morning classes was fine, but with two consecutive classes together despite the 500-person student body, something felt… off. 

The seat in front of Ib was the only one in the entire classroom that remained open. Consequently, it was given to Mary, who turned to greet Ib with a prideful smile. 

“Good to see you again, Ib!” She crooned, as if she hadn’t seen the venomous ruby glare from her new classmate only ten minutes before when Mary had asked to borrow Ib’s chisel to use. Except she hadn’t asked, she just announced that she was borrowing it. 

The thorn in her side felt more like a knife now that she had this image of boundless energy tagging alongside her every minute of the day. Ib couldn’t feel bad about the whole situation, though. She had never had friends in the first place, so at least she could, in a way, call this girl one of hers. Even if she wasn’t exactly partial to the idea of being Mary’s friend.

Pre-calculus wrapped up with the shuffle of shoes against molded carpet and banter beyond the classroom walls. As Ib tucked her calculator away in her backpack, she felt the smallest tinge of guilt that stopped her in her tracks.

She hadn’t really given this girl a proper chance, had she? For all she knew, Mary was desperate to make friends with anyone who was willing to look her way. Not only would ostracizing Mary give Ib less of a chance of making a new friend for the first time in… well, forever, honestly... she also didn’t make a hobby of ruining people’s mornings or making enemies.

With a new, math-fueled outlook on Mary’s mere existence, Ib’s brisk walk took her to her third class: advanced French. With the inclusion of Mary’s presence in Ib’s general vicinity in the past two classes that morning, time had seemed to chug along without interruption. Hours felt like minutes as Mary’s endless supply of charisma shone through her airbrushed exterior.

Ib could retain some of her patience, lost in the memory of Friday evening.

At the door, she greeted her teacher with a timid  _ bonjour  _ before stepping through the threshold into a half-empty classroom. The vague, familiar faces of Ib’s classmates took one look at her, turning away in the few moments it took for them to be disinterested.

Ib took her seat and tucked her skirt in, patiently waiting. One by one, students filed in sluggishly with half-hearted greetings. Some of Ib’s peers, including Ib herself, began shuffling through their bags and binders for the previous weekend’s homework. 

Her phone, thrown to the bottom of her bag, gave Ib a minute to gather her work before the late bell rang. Surfing through the mess, she retrieved the worksheet she’d been given days ago, fully finished. 

The last of her classmates trickled in.

Finally, Mary, in all her ever-present glory, approached the doorway to greet her third new teacher of the day. The two of them exchanged handshakes, the ferocity of the male teacher’s handshake taking her off-guard. Ib snorted at the sight of Mary’s face, painted in shock at the ferocity of his greeting.

It took a second after the tardy bell rang for Ib to recognize that the situation was, in fact, not funny at all. 

With her coat draped across her arm, Mary paraded to the seat left of Ib’s, arranging her belongings across and around her desk. She dropped her bag to rest against the leg of her plastic chair. Coat in hand, she stretched it across the back of the chair and rounded the desk, taking her seat. 

Ib paid her no attention, focusing only on the door as her teacher let it close behind him. It clicked shut, and the murmur of Ib’s classmates grew naturally quieter as more people directed their attention to their professor.

He shuffled confidently across the room, a younger man with a lot of patience and little to lose. He was a favorite of most the French students there, and he knew it. Ib was among his adoring fans. At his desk, he gathered up the day’s work in his arms.

“ _ Bonjour à tous, _ ” he declared, familiar smile and accent filling the air with a familiar warmth. Ib felt her day become a little more tolerable, even if Mary was  _ still  _ staring at her. On second thought, she was probably just imagining things.

Ib turned her head slightly to catch Mary in her periphery. No, her instinct had definitely been right.

“ _Bonjour,_ _Monsieur Blanc,_ ” the class murmured, returning his greeting. The response satisfied him enough, and he began his lecture. Mary wasn’t watching Ib as intensely now that her teacher was speaking, and Ib relaxed into her seat. She felt pinpricks in her thighs and thought that she must have been digging her nails into her skin without thinking. Looking down, the crescent-shaped, reddened dents against her pale skin confirmed it.

“I  _ would _ start by handing you worksheets as usual,” he continued, accent spilling through his dialogue, “but it seems we have a new student in our class today.” Heads began to turn, uncomfortably close to Ib. Blanc turned quietly to Mary, where she had been sitting aptly at her new desk. Ib turned to look at her again. 

Plump, rosy cheeks reflected her smile into the teacher’s eyes, and she seemed to glow. Seeing someone so positively delighted to be alive disgusted Ib somehow. 

“ _ Comment vous appelez-vous? _ ” He asked the transfer student, whose eyes sparkled at the sound of his voice. 

For a moment, Ib didn’t expect a reaction from her, positive that Mary was stalking Ib around her classes to stay repulsively close. It was a college class. There was no way she knew any French. At times, it felt like she hardly knew how to speak in her first language.

“ _ Je m’appelle Mary,”  _ she replied, as sure of herself as she was bizarre. It was basic French, nothing too shocking, but just the fact that she knew any French at all pissed Ib off.

The teacher seemed to find delight in her, though, because his face lit up with her response. “ _ Ravi de vous rencontrer, _ ” He admonished, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Ib was the one watching her now, and Mary’s face was painted all hues of red as the silent gasps of her fellow students finally registered. “ _ Ravi de vous rencontrer aussi, monsieur… _ ”

It was odd, but, to Ib, Mary was becoming a little more... human. While the class clapped, amused by the ease at which Mary spoke, her embarrassment and genuine ability to speak French gave Ib the feeling that Mary was more legitimate than she had originally perceived her to be. 

Mary turned her face to Ib, searching for approval from the only person in the class she knew. Ib sat, staring aghast, and it was enough to alleviate Mary’s social anxiety.

She smiled at Ib even with her eyes, something so genuine that Ib’s stomach flipped. For a second, she’d become a different person. This honest version of her, with comprehensible emotions and reactions, didn’t even appear to be the person that approached Ib earlier while she sat alone in her own silence in the cafeteria. All at once, Ib was delighted, then confused, then angry at herself for being so judgemental. 

Ib’s tensions relaxed enough to flash Mary a smile. 

* * *

As her French homework piled on itself, the drawl of the day was beginning to take a toll on her work ethic. Her fatigue from staying up late was beginning to wash over her, dragging her through the process of her final class. That hour and a half went by at an agonizing pace, remembering the obligations she had after the school day was over. 

Every unused moment, she hovered over her phone, waiting to be entertained by the lovely proposition of speaking to her newfound friend. Maybe it was pathetic, depressing even, but in the momentary bliss of it all, she couldn’t have cared less.

A prickling pain hit her ear. “You awake over there?”

Garry’s hand hovered above her in the follow-through of his flick, dying eyes scanning her face for a reaction. Everything about her seemed to shine as she matched a name to the face, her sincere, pearly grin striking a chord in his heart.

“Good to see you,” she breathed, realizing how stuffy her clothes had become after the school’s furnaces had fired up again. 

The strange progression of their friendship was not lost on Ib yet.

Mr. Howard marched in, and it was enough of a cue for Garry to make his way to the seat across from Ib in the circle. “I’m glad to see some familiar faces in here today,” Mr. Howard remarked, noticeably focusing his attention on Ib’s presence. Heat rose to Ib’s cheeks.

He continued without a moment’s notice: “As always, let’s start by introducing ourselves to the group.”

* * *

“I think I’m going to drop that group therapy.”

Out of the two of them, Ib didn’t expect those words to come out of Garry’s mouth before hers. Feeling a familiar anxiety bubble up within her, she looked up at him as they made their way down the road. “Why’s that?”

Garry only shrugged, expression unchanging. “It’s just not working for me…” he remarked, head falling. His eyes watched the sidewalk as they strode along. “The doctor is a nice guy, but nothing’s helped.”

Ib fell silent for a moment. “I just go because my mom keeps begging me to,” she added. 

A silence loomed between them for a moment as the wind whipped around them. Panic began to set in as the realization dawned on her that she wouldn’t be seeing Garry very often, if at all, when he left the group. She gathered the courage to speak and voice these feelings, but Garry interrupted her thoughts.

“Can I ask you something, Ib?” Garry started, looking straight ahead.

“Sure.”

“Do you ever feel like you’ve met someone before?” The vague question caught Ib off-guard, and Garry expounded as Ib tried to conjure a response, floored. “Like, when you see someone initially, do you ever get the feeling you’ve met before, but you can’t just ask?”

He was watching her now, and the longer he watched, the more dire the question felt. She looked up at him, hopelessly puzzled. “Uh… sure?”

Garry let out a disappointed sigh, and Ib felt her heart sink at the sight of him so defeated. “I swear I asked for a reason,” he continued as they rounded the corner onto Ib’s street.

Ib hopped, lifting her backpack further up on her shoulders while she watched her acquaintance. Before Ib could continue, another thought came to Garry. “When I first saw you, I felt that way completely.”

For an instant, Ib was stunned into silence. “Really...”

Garry nodded, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with a newfound realization. “I couldn’t stop looking at you. I had to figure out where we had met before, but I just had no idea.”

Ib considered this thought before shaking her head. “I don’t think we’ve met…” she assured him, somewhat wary of her own perceptions. “At least, not that I’m aware of…?”

“You’re probably right,” Garry sighed, finally completely defeated on the concept. “I shouldn’t have brought it up anyway.”

The courage Ib had gathered to speak still bubbled at the surface, and the choking feeling in her throat forced the words out. “Will we still get to hang out?”

It was like having a platonic kindergarten crush on a college student. That much  _ felt  _ true, but it was easy to forget how old he really was; his youthful, tired face left the impression of an eternal, unending college Hell Week. Garry’s tired eyes brightened for a moment, and he turned to her with an unfamiliar vigor. “Yes, of course!”

Ib welcomed this strange, new positivity, and part of her liked Garry better this way. It was only for a moment, but the eagerness in everything he did resurfaced a foreign nostalgia. “I know it’s a little strange,” she confessed, “but I feel like we could be good friends.”

Garry nodded, a smile glued to his face as they approached the gate to Ib’s home. “We can rendezvous on Friday evening, maybe?”

For a moment, his masculine visage fell, and something more feminine bloomed in the engagement. It was truer to who he was, something vulnerable, and Ib flourished in the person he’d become. Perhaps he was opening up to her, or perhaps it was a foundless thought, but Ib held onto the idea and refused to let go.

She nodded. “I’ll text you.”


	4. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib's desire to make a new friend grows stronger as her bond with Garry grows.
> 
> Their fun is cut short.

As it always did when Ib anticipated big events, the weekend up to Friday crawled slowly along while she waited to meet up with Garry once more. The plan was simple; skip the group meeting (Dr. Howard wouldn’t be too thrilled, but she didn’t care) and find Garry’s apartment.

There was something thrilling about the whole plan on its own, but it was mostly due to hardly knowing someone so much older and meeting them alone in a place she’d never been to. It was irresponsible, reckless even, but dammit, she was practically an adult and carried her keys at her knuckles, so how bad could it get?

Wielding only the pocket change she could scavenge from around the house, she boarded the public bus, stopped at the end of her street. Garry didn’t live too far, just a few stops away, but anxiety twisted her gut the moment the smell of old carpet and stale air hit her nose. The bus was quiet and, for the most part, empty. 

What was she thinking? What was she even doing? Something deep down trusted Garry with everything she had, but she… really didn’t even know him that well. They’d met, what, twice?

Doubt began to overtake any other thoughts as she took a seat near the front of the bus. It felt irrational. She felt stupid. She was nervous, but her instincts told her it would be fine. He was kind, nice, patient, gentle… God, if he pulled anything, her mom would be pissed!

The bus whined to a stop outside of a modern, well-kept housing district. The sight of the apartment complex, saturated with studio spaces, eased her concerns. It was a silly perception. Wealth didn’t determine whether he was a good or bad person… but the atmosphere was relaxing, at least.

Wandering from building to building, she finally located the one she thought was his, ascending the stairs to the top floor. It wasn’t a long walk, just a couple floors up to the third, but Ib still felt winded by the end of the climb. She first noticed the doormat, shaped and designed like a lemon wedge, at his front door. She gave a few knocks on the black door, and only a few seconds passed before she could hear the click of a lock from inside.

For a moment, Ib didn’t recognize the man in front of her, fried hair dyed a shade of lavender. Garry’s roots had grown in and he hadn’t bothered to bleach them, so they were somewhat darker than the rest of his hair.

“You made it here in one piece!” He exclaimed, opening the door wider. He stepped to the side to let her in. “Not that I thought you wouldn’t,” he added as Ib wiped her feet on the doormat inside the apartment, shaped like an orange slice.

The smell of smoke had seeped into the walls, and Ib could smell it, though it wasn’t terribly strong. The smell of strawberries took over most of that, though; it was an artificial smell that had been blasted out of an incense burner. It was pleasant.

A miniature water fountain bubbled on the bar counter. To her left, the living room was clean, aside from bundles of blankets bunched up on the large couch. Pillows had been scattered on the floor. The fan in the loft above was still running, and it was a little too cold for comfort in the studio apartment to begin with.

Garry’s voice interrupted her thoughts as she looked around. “I try to keep it clean, but the loft especially gets dirty pretty fast.”

“It does?” Ib asked, looking up at him as he let the door close. “From what?”

Garry smiled down at her. “Paint, mostly. Sometimes paper or textiles. Depends on the day.” He was quiet for a moment before he scoffed, mostly to himself. “Actually, that was a lie. It’s mostly just clothes.”

Ib stepped further into the apartment. Art prints of various sizes had been pinned to the walls and the large number of them became clear as she entered further. To her right, half-emptied grocery bags laid untouched on the kitchenette’s granite counters. The long L-shaped couch in front of Garry’s T.V. looked plush and comfortable. He’d left the T.V. on. Whether it was on purpose or not, she was unsure. Everything seemed to distract her.

“Make yourself at home,” Garry continued, stepping past her into the kitchen to finish putting away his groceries while he gestured towards the mess. “We can talk once I get this done.”

The plastic bags rustled behind her as Ib circled the black, sectional couch, kicking her shoes onto the floor and lining them up to the wall. There were plants all around the apartment of varying species, colors, and sizes. String lights had been tacked up against the ceiling, and Ib felt she could have thrived in the apartment if she were the one living there; it had a lot of character, and everything about it let off a homey warmth. The string lights had been unplugged, but the lanterns that adorned them looked just as fine alone.

“Your apartment is really pretty,” Ib commented, eyes still scanning the room.

“I just fill it with things I like, really,” Garry replied, shelving the last of the packaged food, “but thank you.” He promenaded around the counter towards the living room, approaching the couch at Ib’s side. He dusted off his pants as he came to a halt. “Did you have anything in mind for today?” He asked, turning to her. “Anything you wanted to do?”

Ib looked ahead at the television for a moment, thinking to herself wistfully before shaking her head. 

“Perhaps we should have made plans before…” Garry sighed, rubbing the curve of his cheek with his hand while he stood there, deep in thought.

* * *

Garry wasn’t sure how comfortable he was being so close to Ib’s house on an outing; there was no way he was thinking about pulling anything funny, but he was sure someone would get the wrong idea (especially if that someone happened to be one of Ib’s parents).

Ib had stopped by her house to run in for her ice skates, but the tension and fear emanating from Garry was palpable as Ib shooed him away from the front of the house. There was helicopter parenting at play as clear as day in that family, and it left Garry with a sour taste in his mouth. A block away, he stood beneath a lamp post, breathing into his hands as he waited. 

Down the road, he could hear the old front gate of Ib’s yard squeak open and shudder to a close. A new scarf had been wound tightly around her neck and face, and Garry wasn’t sure if she’d done it herself or not. In her hands, Ib held her white skates by the laces she’d tied together. 

The park down the road laid claim to a small pond, frozen over with a solid layer of fresh ice. Ib was familiar to skating on this natural pond; she’d skated on it hundreds of times as a child, and she made that very clear as they approached. It was easy for her to read Garry’s concerned expressions as they grew closer. The regret he felt in bringing his own pair of brown skates crept up on him the closer they got.

The ice bore scratches from people who had visited the pond earlier that morning. It was cloudy, and the visible frost on the ice calmed Garry a bit.

“It’s dry,” Ib remarked of the layer of ice on the pond, sitting on a snowy bench in order to tie her laces. The wind chill pierced through both of them, and Garry shuddered as she spoke. After setting her shoes to the side of the bench, Ib fumbled for a few seconds with the laces of her skates before Garry caved and bent over to help her. One knee in the snow, he propped her skate up on his thigh and tied her laces in record time, dropping it as he leaned against the seat of the bench to stand back up.

Ib leaned back down over her skates. “You have to tuck them in,” she mumbled through her scarf. “You’ll trip on them otherwise.” As Ib tucked her laces away into the top of her boot, Garry trudged towards the bench reluctantly and pulled up his already-tied skates onto the edge of the seat, tucking in the laces. He watched as a proud smile shined behind Ib’s red eyes.

Hobbling over to the edge of the pond, Ib stepped gracefully onto the surface, pushing herself away from the edge of the pond. “I may be too clumsy for this,” Garry warned her as he approached; seamlessly, she turned to him, gliding forward as she offered him a hand.

Bracing himself, he took the younger girl’s hand and stepped onto the surface, nearly losing his balance upon impact. He could hear Ib giggling as he tried to recover, face burning from more than just the cold.

Nearby, the few children in the playground shrieked and played. The pond was empty except for Garry and Ib, and the scene would have been calm if not for the sounds of screaming kids nearby. Ib pushed away from him with the edge of her skate, back pressed against the wind. 

“Do you know how to ice skate?” Ib asked him, pulling the scarf away from her mouth for him to hear her.

“Well, sort of…” Garry shouted against the wind, fumbling forward. “I’m too clumsy for this, I think, Ib--” he slipped for an instant, and he flailed as he tried to catch himself. Ib cackled at him while she drifted backwards, holding her stomach, and Garry couldn’t help but laugh at himself with her.

Garry had lived in this town all his life, but had never really been attracted to the idea of skating. He knew how to manage himself on the ice a few years ago, sure. His height changed with the familiarity of ice skating, and he felt like a newborn deer struggling to walk as Ib made her way along the edge of the pond without him, wind against her face. Slowly but surely, the skill came back to him as faint muscle memory. Despite a few hiccups in movement, he made his way around. It didn’t take longer than a minute or so for Ib to lap him entirely, coming to stop at his left side.

“You look tired,” she noted, skating briskly beside him. “I hope this isn’t too boring.” For the first time since she stepped on the ice, she watched her footing. 

Unexpectedly, Garry chuckled, a low and dry sound. “I just have a lot on my mind, kiddo.” His pet names felt dated, but Ib didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked up at him, eyes bright and curious.

“Like what?”

She was a girl with a quiet voice and a curious mind, two things so drastically contradicting that it hurt Garry’s heart a little. Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to ask the question, but he gave in to her prying. “Anything I can think about, really.” He was quiet for a moment, seemingly in thought. “I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something.” 

“You keep saying weird stuff,” Ib commented matter-of-factly, puffs of steam escaping her lips. Her face had turned pink from the pinpricks of wind. “You were talking about stuff like that before.”

Garry’s face lacked any surprise, and Ib noticed it as she looked up at him. She expected him to confirm her recollection of their conversation earlier in the week, but he said nothing, only looking ahead. It took her aback, but she wasn’t sure what to say. 

The silence between them was painful. “Did I tell you about the weird new girl at my school?” Ib asked him abruptly. Anything to break the silence. 

Garry smiled, brows upturned. “Ib, you shouldn’t talk about people like that,” he scolded her.

“It’s not like that,” she huffed defensively, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “She showed up on Monday and was in  _ all  _ of my classes,” she explained. “And I mean  _ all of them.  _ I’m not sure how. It was so strange...”

“And did you try to talk to her?” Garry asked, looking down at her through lavender bangs. “Maybe you two could be friends.”

“More like she talked to me,” Ib continued, still watching her feet. It took her a moment to think of what to say after, but it came sure enough. “She wouldn’t stop talking. She’s nice. Her name’s Mary. She talks so f--”

“Mary,” Garry breathed. 

Stunned by the slight, muted outburst, Ib skidded to a stop. It took Garry a moment to pick up on the atmosphere. He turned with caution towards her, and she stared into him, too confused by the entire situation to say anything in response.

“That’s a nice name,” Garry continued, expression unchanging. “I don’t hear it too often.”

“... do you know her?” Ib asked. She’d clenched her gloved hands into fists. 

Garry couldn’t read her expression, especially not behind her scarf, but he could feel his guard slowly rise. “No…” he hesitated. “I mean, I don’t think so. I can’t remember. Maybe.”

Ib snorted. “It’s an old name. It’s a ‘grandma name’.” She stepped closer. “Curly blonde hair sound familiar?”

“Not really, no.” He paused again, holding a hand over his eyes to block out the light. “Ib, I need to sit down for a second.”

As he made his way back to the bench, Ib followed behind, keeping some distance between the two of them. Even at an angle, she could see the vague look of pain on Garry’s face. “Are you okay…?” She asked, moving closer as he approached the edge of the pond. She took him by the arm as he stumbled into the snow. “We can head back for today if you need to--”

“Just give me a second,” he asked. “Please.” 

Partially supporting his weight, Ib held onto him, bringing herself to step onto the snowy ground. Finding solid footing in the soil, she walked at his side back to the bench.

“Sorry,” Garry began, but Ib stopped him with the shake of her head before he could apologize. 

Ib sat down before he could, guiding him to the seat next to her. Their shoes were still on the far end of the bench where they’d left them.  “Do we need to walk back?” She asked him, tilting her head to get some sort of view of his face. He held his forehead with his hand, fried bangs laced between his fingers. Ib could tell how clammy his skin was just by looking at him. All she could think of doing was holding his free hand, rubbing small circles into the back of his hand with her thumb. “I really don’t mind, Garry. My parents weren’t home when I went into the house. I checked.”

There wasn’t any reason Garry could think of for her to check for that sort of thing, but he couldn’t think of any reason not to trust her, either. Squeezing her hand, he nodded weakly, waves of nausea consuming most of his thoughts. He felt tired, and he really didn’t want to move even though he knew he would be better off after taking the trek back. 

On second thought, was it a good idea to go back with her? He didn’t want a confrontation with Ib’s parents, and running into them would be an uncomfortable situation on its own. All these thoughts made Garry’s stomach churn harder, but he was too drained to protest. Tugging off the skates, he threw them into the snow. He hardly had the energy to pull his boots up and lace them.

Still holding him by the arm, Ib guarded him along the icy pavement. It was caked with powdered snow, and the patches of ice could quickly prove a hazard to both of them if they weren’t careful. 

“Ib,” Garry finally mustered, “I don’t want to run into your parents today, really.”

“Just be polite,” she reassured him suddenly, still surveying the path ahead. “I’ll tell them you’re Mary’s older brother and we’re discussing her well-being or something.”

It was odd that she would be able to come up with something so fast. It was possible she’d thought about the possibility of her parents coming home minutes before, but there was also a good chance her mother’s helicopter parenting had made her daughter into a good liar.

“I don’t know about this, Ib…” He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.

“Would you rather we go back to your apartment?” She was surprisingly forward, not that Garry minded. She’d turned to him then, brows furrowed. She watched his face for a reaction or an answer. “It’s okay if you want to.”

“That sounds fine,” he agreed letting his arms hang at his sides. His eyes were tired. Everything felt so bright. All this excitement was giving him a migraine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry i've been gone so long! i wanted more than anything to have this fic finished and i finally found time now that the rough draft of my novel is finished lmao


End file.
